Life and cause
by planet p
Summary: AU; after "Enemy At The Gate," Michael is still alive; with the help of an associate, he furthers his plans for revenge. OOC; Michael/Kate, sorta.


The craft spun wildly, out of control. Nothing that Michael did could stop it, could allay its distress. Kate felt as though she was going to be ill, but they'd probably be dead in seconds, anyway, so it hardly mattered if she was ill or not

There'd be nothing left for them to be identified by, just ash, and smoke.

It would be a relief, she supposed, a reprieve. She'd not actually felt this relieved since she'd first been imprisoned during Michael's seize on the Atlantis base, when he'd had her locked away in the cells – protected by a force field – as so many of his kind had been.

It wasn't even actually as though she was the real Dr. Kate Heightmeyer, she considered, now. He'd had her cloned, as he'd had Carson Beckett cloned, so he that he'd be able to exact his revenge upon her. He'd used the Lantean technology to speed up the process, so that it had hardly taken any time at all. She'd been constructed as the Replicators had, but, rather than being a strict machine, she was a living, feeling being. She was real, she just wasn't Kate.

The _real_ Kate had died.

She may have had Kate's memories, she thought, but she understood that she was not, and could never be, Kate Heightmeyer. Though she'd been a psychiatrist, Kate had believed in souls, she had ever since she'd been small, a child, really, and that belief had carried on, through her memories, into her clone.

So the second Kate understood that she was not the first Kate; at best, they were sisters, separated by time, and Fate's circumstance.

Now, as the 'jumper' spun faster and faster, she breathed a sigh of relief that it would finally be over; Michael would finally be dead, as Atlantis already believed him to be; they were going to crash into the ocean and break apart.

They would be no more.

She considered her options; what did she _want_ most of all before she died, and what could she realistically _get_ before that time came: _A name_, she thought, _my own name._

_Kit._

And then everything slowed down, and she could not even scream if she wanted to.

A single thought reverberated through her mind, shatteringly loud, _No!_

* * *

They had not died, instead, they had found themselves somewhere else; they had been on the planet with the Atlantis base, then, now, they were no longer, they were here, instead.

She felt… strange, different. When she tried to move, to gain her feet, she toppled right to the floor again.

Michael frowning, thinking hard.

Kit's eyes widened – she tried not to let them, but, at her first glimpse out of the jumper's windows, she couldn't help it – the Lantean craft which had been Atlantis base must have broken from the planet and come to Earth, thoughts spun madly through her mind, and… and… they had somehow followed it.

"Yes," Michael's voice broke the silence, and he stood swiftly and marched away, toward the window, and she understood then, that he'd somehow heard her thoughts.

She wished they'd died.

They were on Earth.

She wondered if they'd been suspended, temporarily, for the journey. She just couldn't seem to make her legs work.

"Perfect," Michael commented, and turned swiftly and walked back to her.

_It's not my planet_, she thought viciously, _it's her planet, Kate's planet, not mine; my planet was that water planet which we left, the planet where the Atlantis base had been stationed, where I was created. She's dead, you idiot! Kate is dead! It is a doomed pursuit to seek revenge against the dead, don't you know that?_

A scowl crossed Michael's face, and she smiled, fractionally (she couldn't properly manage a real smile, not yet).

To the personnel of the Atlantis base, to the humans of Earth, Kate Heightmeyer and Michael Kenmore were dead; they had not even _known_ about her creation!

Revenge would be stupid, and though Michael theoretically now had the element of surprise to his advantage, the point was a null one; he was an alien to this world, as she was, but _she_ didn't look it – _he_ did!

Her smile grew a tiny amount and she thought, _What now, E.T.?_

The world around her went dark again.

* * *

Her first thought when she woke was, _They should have named you Dracula, you despicable creature!_ to be replaced rapidly by, _What?_

Then, _Fuck!_

By whichever piece of technology he'd managed to manipulate to save himself from certain death when he'd fallen from the tower in Atlantis, he'd obviously procured another with which to disguise his identity, at least, to the degree that he no longer appeared Wraith, but, instead, he appeared quite human, and quite ordinary.

It would be, of course, the innocuous charm he wore around his neck.

A glower marred her face and she pushed herself to her feet, only to fall back down. Damn! Her hands and feet had been bound! "Afraid I'll bite, Wraith!" she growled.

Michael ignored her, he was busy flipping through a telephone book.

"If we're ordering in," she quipped, "get pizza! No seafood!"

He ignored her again.

She decided that she was going to call the amulet a 'platitude device.' It seemed to make something new from something old, so she figured that the name was fitting; she wondered what else it could do, what its capabilities were.

"You're still a Wraith, underneath that silly charm!" she told him, in a hiss. "Wraith don't eat pizza; they suck the life from people, like _vampires_!"

Once again, she was ignored.

She closed her eyes. _Moron__!_

"Quite right," Michael commented, and her eyes flew open to see him standing in front of her.

"Oooh, _funky_!" she snapped, widening her eyes. "Try your worst, freak!"

He smiled, and extended his feeding hand.

"Please," she moaned, "that is so _un_scary! Now you're _Merlin_! Well, guess what, I never liked the old geezer, in the first place!" She sighed heavily. "We're not having the pizza now, I take it!" She nodded. "You might as well have fed me before you try to eat me! Yeah, it figures that you've never read _Hansel and Gretel_."

Michael shoved his hand back down, returning it to his side. "Will you shut up!" he growled menacingly.

"Why?" she scathed. "Because I'm hurting your sensibilities, or because I'm spoiling the mood?"

His eyes flashed darkly.

She wriggled about, but her hands were still bound behind her back. "Alright!" she relented. "Just don't… don't do that knocking-out-with-your-mind thing again! My head's killing me; it might actually beat you to the punch!" She heaved a sigh. "Before I die, I've something to tell you."

A growl appeared on his face, then in his voice, "What?"

"My name is Kit."

* * *

They were on a bus, Kit's head still hurt, a week later. She was alive, the fact had to count for something, but her head wasn't forgiving her fast.

It was worse than annoying that they had to sit 'together;' she would rather have sat with Godzilla, if Godzilla had been real and sitting in the bus with them, but, unfortunately, he was neither of those things.

She'd got the window seat, at least.

She watched the scenery pass; her head hurt more.

_Where are we going?_ she wanted to ask, but, really, she should have got _that_ much when they'd boarded the bus.

She didn't recognise any of the songs playing over the radio; she felt sick, and her head _could not_ stop hurting!

"Hey, Mikey, what about you zap me with that instant-unconsciousness mind-beam you've got happening?" she suggested.

He didn't look at her.

She scowled, "My head is exploding, you _jerk_! Did you forget, I'm the one who stole the credit card _and_ figured out the PIN – and you can't even get me a pair of _shades_!" She gave up; what was the use?

* * *

She was allowed to buy a pair of sunglasses at a pharmacy a few blocks from the train station – there'd been a directory up on the Information board – whilst they were waiting for their connecting bus to come in.

Kit stalled as she walked, glad to feel the cool change in the air.

Michael grabbed her arm and held it tight.

"Nice, Mikey," she commented.

A few minutes later, they arrived back at the train station.

She turned her head to look behind her. Wasn't _that_ where they were supposed to be waiting for the bus? She turned back to see that they'd come to a pause in front of a little café/gift shop.

Right, a map would probably be a _good_ idea.

She wondered if she could disintegrate them all to ash with her mind, but it wasn't likely, even if she hadn't still had this _abominable_ headache.

After they'd – well, _she'd_ purchased the map; actually, a couple of maps, and some pain killers – they sat down at one of the café's tables for a coffee, the idea of which she wanted to choke to _death_ at, but it was probably for the benefit of not having to take her pain killers dry, she supposed.

She made a face; "I'm not Kate," she told him. "Whatever you feel you want to communicate to her, well, you _can't_ do it through me. I'm Kit; Kate's dead. She's gone."

He looked at the map, saying nothing.

She crossed her arms. Still a jerk, then!

* * *

The coffee had made her hungry, but at least her headache had decided to give her some breathing space, and she still wanted to laugh at the sight of a Wraith _drinking coffee_, or maybe it was the just look he'd got, like he couldn't imagine anything more disgusting in the entire universe, whilst she could imagine it entirely, and it was currently sitting _next_ to her.

"Don't tell me you're still after the baby?" she moaned.

The reply was the usual – no reply!

She looked out the window, then at the maps he was holding. Why couldn't she hold them for a while? It wasn't as though she was going to _rip them to pieces_ in _front_ of him, or eat them. She looked out the window again.

* * *

She opened her eyes and realised she'd fallen asleep. _Crap!_ Still, she hadn't hit her head too badly on the window, so that had to be a good thing, right?

She squinted against the bright light; she'd taken her sunglasses off inside, she remembered. A small frown wove itself through the muscles of her face. Ah, why was the window over _there_?

She jolted upright, and realised that the reason she hadn't _hit_ her head on the window was because she'd hadn't been resting it against the window!

Her eyes widened and she sprung away from Michael, toward the side of the carriage, and knocked her shoulder on the window. She winced, but remained silent: he was a jerk! After all, it was _her_ choice where she put her head or didn't put it!

_Oh, I'll bet he thinks he's just a regular Charming Edward! But he's not fooling me!_

She removed her sunglasses from her lap and put them back on.

* * *

They took dinner at a restaurant, that night. Kit wondered how close they were to their objective – to _Torren_ – how far they'd come, and how far they still had to go.

She felt sick; she didn't want to eat.

They were going to steal someone's _baby_!

_Well_, she thought, _Michael is! If he thinks I'm going to help him, when the time comes, then he's got _another_ thing coming! I've already done enough that I've to be guilty for on this campaign – I am not adding _that_ strike to my tally!_

She chose a pasta dish and a salad; she wasn't going to have meat, it'd only sit around in her stomach until she threw it up again.

She prodded at her salad with the fork she'd been given, when the meal arrived, for some minutes, then glanced up at the bottle of wine they'd gotten because _everyone else_ seemed to be getting it.

She reached for the bottle and poured herself a glass and drank it in one go, already pouring herself another by the time Michael had the chance to raise even _one_ eyebrow.

She personally couldn't care less what he thought, either way!

At about the time she was onto pouring her third, he extended a hand for the bottle, and, winning that fight, she conceded to flinging a nasty glare his way, and drinking the half glass of wine she'd managed to get into her wineglass before the bottle had been snatched away.

Michael nodded to her plate lightly.

She averted her gaze from his and glared at her pasta. _A jerk _and_ presumptuous! What an enticing mix!_ _It'll be enticing me to vomit, in a minute_, she thought, flicking her gaze around to the other tables.

_Hhh!_

She turned her eyes back to her pasta and took a bite, chewing it, her thoughts preoccupied by wine.

Her fingers already felt strange, holding the fork, and her jaw felt the same way, chewing her food. She wondered if she'd be able to make a grab for the bottle or if she'd just land on top of the table and her plate.

Obviously, though she wasn't Kate, being her sister/clone was enough to imbue her with the same pathetic tolerance of alcohol.

_How fabulously cheery!_ she thought.

* * *

The walk back to their hotel room did nothing for her apparent alcoholic stupor; they took the elevator, and, seeing as she had Michael to hold onto her as they were navigating the corridors, it was _No worries!_

As soon as they'd got inside, and the door had closed behind them, he let go of her, and she fell straight – _bang_ – to the floor, where, apparently, he had no compunction with letting her stay.

From the floor, she watched him walk away, and began to laugh.

_He was _such_ a _jerky_ jerk!_

She couldn't believe her sister had even felt _badly_ for him, as though _she_ had been the one in the wrong!

He was a fucking _Wraith_! Who feasted on _her_ species, on her _friends_! She'd obviously been insane to feel sorry for him!

Kit didn't feel sorry for him in the slightest; she wished they'd died, together, in the crash that had never happened; she wished she could kill him _now_ – but she couldn't even pull it together enough to pick herself _up_ off the floor!

She let herself laugh.

She hoped Teyla _murdered_ him before he got the chance to go anywhere _near_ her son!

* * *

As she had in the train, she woke in an unfamiliar position, and deduced, as she sat up, that she'd lay down on the carpet and had fallen asleep. At least she hadn't thrown up, it seemed, and she slipped off her high heels and tried for a stand.

It worked, though she could still feel the effects of the alcohol, slowly making their way through her system. Just _maybe_, she shouldn't have had that other half of a third, and fourth glass.

She slowly took a step forward, and then another. Without the high heels, she wasn't actually swaying all that much, and she found she could walk unsupported.

_Well, good_, she thought.

As quietly as she could, she made her way toward the bedrooms, the last of which Michael had decided would be his. She supposed he would still be awake – Did Wraith even _need_ 'sleep'? – but she might at least get a few cuss words off in his direction before he _dealt_ with her, either by backhanding her, or by cleverly zapping her.

Or maybe he'd just suck the life out of her, she thought. She could be with her sister, then.

She wanted to shake herself for the idiotic thought, but it was only a little idiotic, and it made her sad; she realised she'd never even met her sister, she _only_ had her memories, as though she were nothing more than a pathetic grave robber!

She stumbled and crashed into the door to Michael's room.

_Shit!_

If he ever had been sleeping, she figured that would have laid that to rest. He'd be up on his feet in no time and… she fell through the door, which had just been opened, and right at him.

_Come on, that's just cruel!_

He took hold of her arms, so that she didn't slide straight to the floor.

"I _hate_ you, I just thought you might want to know that," she told him quite casually considering that it was _actually_ fairly true. She gave a short gargled laugh, "What are you doing?"

He frowned; he wasn't _doing_ anything. Well, apart from holding her up, that was.

She laughed again, and choked, then fell silent. _You suck_, she thought as hard as she could. _You're not even a _nice_ Wraith._

Her eyes locked onto the charm. Oh, if she broke his stupid charm, then people would start wondering, and if people started wondering, well, then maybe he wouldn't win, maybe the tables would turn; and she'd have done something _good_ since the start of all of this wrongness!

She could do it for _Kate_, she thought suddenly, and a thrill of warm excitement rushed through her. Yes, she could do it for her sister!

"Hmm," Michael commented, as though it was such a _pity_, only, it wasn't really.

Her eyes darkened in horror and anger: where did he get off invading her privacy like that!

She struggled – she had to _fight_ – but he was still _Wraith_, even if he looked human. "Stupid alien," she screamed uselessly, as tears filled her eyes, "why can't you just _die_!"

Then, she started to scream and _scream_.

_Someone will hear_, she thought desperately, _someone will hear and come; they'll think he'd doing something to me, and they'll come to help me._

Then, the screaming stopped: no one was going to hear.

She felt a yelp of panic rise up, but it wouldn't come out because… She blinked rapidly, clearing the tears from her eyes. _Oh, fuck! Help!_ He'd gone mad, or _something_, because… She couldn't even think about it properly! He was _kissing_ her!

What did it mean? Was he going to eat her? Not just suck the life out of her, but really _eat_ her?

Her legs felt strange, ineffectual. _Hit him_, her mind screamed; _K-_

_What!_ Horror and rage boiled up. Her body wanted her to _kiss_ him! _Damn you, Kate! Damn you to the depths of Hell!_ she wanted to scream, but it was _her_ body, not Kate's.

_I hate you; I hate you, and I'll prove it_, she thought viciously, and kissed him back.

_No _way_!_

* * *

"What's wrong with you, you're a Wraith!" she shrieked, shoving him away from her.

She didn't _care_ if, on Earth, mother dogs sometimes looked after baby cats, or wolves took in human children; she didn't even care if he was mostly human, genetically, or if, because of what her sister had let happen to him, he wasn't even properly Wraith, _or_ human. She just… just… _hated_ him!

She slammed into the door as though he'd pushed her, except that he hadn't, at least, not with his hands.

Her head kind of swam, she couldn't think; she couldn't even see properly. _How strange_, she thought.

Then she was on the floor.

She stared at him. Oh, he was on the floor, too. Wasn't that… electric!

She stared at him, but she couldn't even wonder why he was crying. Man, that headache had come back to kick ass!

So she just sat there, on the floor.

Staring.

* * *

Kit's eyes floated open; someone was touching her face.

Oh, if it wasn't that strapping young lieutenant who was actually… actually… a Wraith.

She choked, and began coughing in earnest. It hurt, badly. _Please don't touch me_, she pleaded with her eyes, _please!_

Michael was talking, the sound of his voice all kind of smudgy, kind of blurry, but she didn't know what he was saying. Was it… was it Wraith?

She choked again, and tears poured down her face. "I don't s-sp-speak Wraith," she half choked, half cried. Couldn't he just… go? She wanted to be alone; it hurt too much to be… not alone.

He was still talking, she noticed, still saying things in that language she didn't understand.

She just cried. He wasn't going to go, was he?

* * *

She woke up in bed. She sat up. _I'm okay_, she thought. _My head's a little sore, but I'm okay. It was only a bad dream, I'm still here, I'm still alive._

And then it came crashing back, _But I'm not Kate. Oh God, I'm sorry; I'm not you. You're dead!_

She fought back her tears, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

Would she ever stop saying that? she wondered, though she'd never actually done anything, though it hadn't been her who'd taken Kate away, who'd killed her.

"Kate?"

Her eyes snapped into focus, tears spilling down her face, into her mouth; tasting of salt. "No further!" she spat.

Michael stopped dead. She almost laughed out loud at the pain in his eyes.

"Kate's dead!" she hissed. "She's dead, and you never even got to wish her 'good luck' in Hell! Welcome to _my_ world, you _bastard_!"

* * *

On the train, he opened one of the maps to show her the way they would go next, but she wasn't interested; she wasn't listening. If she was supposed to know this part for some important deed, then, oh well, she'd stuff it up, boohoo!

She ate the chips, one by one, from the bag of potato chips she'd bought at the station's kiosk on the stolen credit card; she didn't even care enough about him to pretend to care that he was there. Most of the time, she was alone; he wasn't even there.

They had five different connecting train journeys to fuss with, but she wouldn't let him take her hand once. She'd rather end up lost, or crushed by a train, than have him _touch_ her.

Dinner was at a diner; she got a Coke because they, obviously, didn't serve alcohol, and a chicken schnitzel with salad as the side. Unfamiliar with Earth food, Michael had the same, with water; he wasn't crazy about the bubbles.

She got an ice-cream from the fridge, before they left, and busied herself with eating it on the walk to the motel; she didn't care if it seemed as though she was acting childish.

At the motel, once they'd gotten the room, she switched on the television and surfed channels. She wasn't Kate, and she wasn't a psychiatrist, and if she didn't want to talk, then she _wouldn't_.

* * *

In the morning, it was quiet; the television had been turned off, or turned down. Turned off, it turned out.

She sat up and slipped out of bed, and walked to the bathroom.

She was still tired, but it seemed she was only ever tired, these days. She walked back into the bedroom and grabbed her handbag from the bedside stand and trudged back into the bathroom, plonking her handbag down on the counter beside the basin.

Snapping it open, she took out her foldable hairbrush and settled into brushing her hair. There were knots, it hurt, but she kept silent, only wincing.

She was crappy Kit, she was going to kidnap someone's baby; she didn't deserve the right to scream, even if it was a right _everyone_ deserved, even 'bad' people.

She wasn't even a real person, wasn't that always how it went in the movies; she was a clone. Maybe she didn't even have a soul, maybe she'd only ever wanted to believe that she had; maybe she'd been dreaming it up all along?

Maybe she was _just_ a machine?

Like all of those Replicators.

Maybe she could only ever turn out to be as bad as them?

Even Michael was real, even he'd been _born_.

It wasn't as though she could say the same thing about herself, now, was it?

* * *

Something stopped her hand midair; no, someone. She'd been brushing her hair, just brushing it, and brushing it, and now she wasn't.

She felt angry, and tired.

_Cut it out_, she thought, catching sight of Michael's reflection in the mirror. _Quit acting like such a creep and leave me alone._

She tugged her hand from his grasp and continued brushing her hair.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, watching her in the mirror.

"No," she replied. If _he_ was, then he could just leave her alone – go and find some old person, or some kid to suck the life from, or, hey, whoever the Hell he wanted. She wasn't stopping him; she was tired, and she was brushing her hair.

He took the brush from her and snapped it shut.

The sound jarred her, and she whipped around to face him, raising her fists.

"You've brushed your hair enough," he told her.

"I was using that!" she growled.

"And now you are no longer," he said.

_Stupid, insensitive bastard!_ She pounded her fists on his chest, but, for all that, he didn't even blink, and she only made herself more tired.

"You must eat," he told her, leaning past her to return the brush to her handbag sitting on the counter beside the bathroom basin.

"I'm not hungry," she said, though, now that she thought about it, she mightn't have been hungry, but she wasn't _not hungry_, either.

He took her arms and turned her around, so that she was facing the mirror and the door, once more. She didn't pick up her handbag; she turned back to facing him. "I'm not _going_," she told him, "go on your own."

"I don't want to go on my own," he said.

"Too bad," she quipped. She laughed, "Take your imaginary shrink, Kate!"

A frown crossed his face; he wasn't impressed.

"I said, 'Go on your own!'" she screamed. What was so hard for him to get about _on his own_!

"And I told you that I didn't want to go on my own," he merely replied.

"Don't be so _pathetic_!" she hissed. "You only want me there so I can do the ordering! You hate having to talk to other humans; it makes you _sick_!"

He raised a hand and slapped her; the sound reverberated around the bathroom. "You stupid, pretentious _little_ girl!"

She smiled faintly. "That's me," she whispered, all proud.

He gripped her arms and shook her.

She didn't do a thing to stop him; her hair flopped about, her chin bobbed a bit. She stared at him.

"Alright," he declared, collecting her to him, "alright! What do you want?"

"I don't want anything," she said, her voice droning and hollow. She wanted nothing; just nothing.

"It isn't fair that you think yourself the only one able to feel what you're feeling. Disillusionment, disregard; but you do, now, and something has to be done about it," he told her. "As you feel nothing toward it, and you have no intention of doing anything about it, and I am older, I shall just assume that I am to take that liberty. What have you to say?"

"Go to Hell," she muttered.

He held her tighter. "As you would say, 'It is as I feared,'" he concluded.

She blinked. Wraith didn't fear anything, they thought they were invincible; what a loud of trot he was talking. Not that she cared, though.

"There, there," he said gently.

She jerked, suddenly. "What is this? Are you out of your mind? Let go of me, you idiot!"

"You are not feeling yourself," he explained, unaffected by her attempts, or her words.

She stopped fighting, for a moment. "And you are?" she shot.

"Naturally," he began.

"You're not my fucking dad," she screamed, "or my superior officer!"

"Does that mean that you're feeling better?" he asked.

"You're not charming!" she seethed. "You're a sick fucker!" Oddly, she didn't even feel bad for having sworn, or for having called someone something so horrendously awful.

"Should we go for something to eat, now?"

"I told you, I'm not _eating_!" she spat.

"Then we are to go on, to further our travels?" he asked.

She ripped her arm free and shot up a hand, but he caught it before she'd even got near to slapping him.

"Are we to go on?" he pressed, completely calmly.

She growled, "Go to Hell."

"You have already wished me that particular compliment," he noted. "Try something new, something fresh."

"Fuck you!"

He tossed his head. "Yes, well, I understand," he said.

* * *

She sat on the train, arms crossed, fuming from head to toe. If they'd been in a cartoon, she would have imagined singed hair, with little trails of smoke travelling upwards, above her head, from off of her shoulders and blackened hair.

She kept her jaw clenched; now he imagined himself the elder, the rational one!

It was pathetically! Not to mention, lousy and ridiculous!

This wasn't her vendetta – it was _his_!

Perhaps he imagined he'd earned himself the right, and the age, to hold petty grudges and stage pathetic, childish vendettas and not be looked upon as a fool; or perhaps he expected her to assume him senile, and give him pardon.

Well, pardon her, but she wasn't giving him _any_ pardons!

She turned to him suddenly, still fuming. "I don't say things like, 'It is as I feared!'" she growled. "And neither did Kate!"

"From your movies, Kit," he replied easily.

If she could have internally combusted and burnt them both to death in a ball of flame, she would have. "They're not _my_ movies!" she ground.

"Hmm." He glanced at her casually, "Yours, Kate's. She was your… 'sister.'"

She laughed. _The fucking cheek of him!_

He placed a hand over hers lightly.

She pulled her hand from under his, trying to recall when she'd unfolded her arms, and recrossed them; turning to glare stubbornly out the window at the _whatever_ flashing by at breakneck speed.

* * *

They'd come to their last connecting train; it was raining hard, now. She waited the taxi leave, then turned back, her eyes travelling to their platform. Oh, joy, it was barely even covered!

"We'll wait here," Michael told her, gesturing to a bench pushed up against the wall beside the ticket office.

She didn't move.

"Would you prefer something to drink?" he asked. His glance travelled to the large clock above their heads, some distance ahead of them. "It is nearing the lunch hour."

"Bugger off," she groused.

"Suit yourself," he told her, then she felt him take her arm roughly and march her away with him, toward the café.

"You bastard!" she growled, shooting him a dirty look.

"Naturally," he responded, with a smile.

She wanted to slap it off his face; she didn't.

* * *

Inside the café's doors, he let go of her arm; she dropped her shoulder, rethinking her decision not to slap him.

She looked around the café and chose the table that they would take; she walked away in its direction, then, paused. "Oh, sweet pea," she called over her shoulder in her cutest voice, "just a coffee for me, thanks. You know how I like it." She smiled to herself secretly and walked the short distance to the table, and took a chair.

"What is that?" she demanded, when he returned with the drinks and placed them down at the table, presenting her with hers.

"It's today's special," he told her.

Irritation flared in her eyes, and she turned her head to glance at the Specials' Board. _Coffee: Chilli/Chocolate_, the board read_._ "Oh, yuck!" she moaned, returning her gaze to the table and her drink. She pointed a finger at Michael. "_You_ are a spectacularly easy mark!"

He shrugged one shoulder. "I do _try_, sweet pea."

She suppressed the urge to throw up on him, but, just barely. She should have known _that_ particular stink would come back to bite her in the backside!

* * *

"So, what is it with you?" she said. "Are you in love with Teyla?"

He smiled and nodded, "No, I'm not in love with Teyla."

"One could be forgiven for thinking that you're acting out the role of the jilted lover," she commented, tossing her head.

"'Jilted'?"

She raised a hand and snapped her fingers to her palm in a little kid's wave. "So long; don't call me – _ever_!"

He leaned into the table. "Nothing of the sort," he informed her.

She crossed her arms. "So it's the old, boring _No one likes me! Hey, what about instead of taking that particular blame myself, I find someone _else_ to blame! Struth, barmy, I'm in _love_!_"

He laughed. "They _are_ to blame," he corrected altogether more brightly than could be called for, "they made me into what I am today."

"Oh, well fuck, who do all the poor saplings in the world blame for the fact that they're starving, dying of disease, homeless, down and out, and – fuck, _yeah_ – it makes them mad as Hell! Who do we kill first, whose life to make Hell first? Such a big decision, such a cute negotiation! Shit, yeah, cos that'll make everything, Hell, just everything _better_; for me, for me, for them, for just _everyone_!" She laughed, "Life is about falls, that doesn't mean you don't dust yourself down and get the fuck back up again! Do you want to live or not?"

"You are such a child," Michael replied.

She stared at him with something between gob smack and a filthy glare. "Oh, I am?"

"Yes, you are," he told her with amusement.

"You find that funny, do you?" she demanded.

"Of course I do."

She laughed shortly. "Just watch I don't empty my drink over your head," she muttered, returning her eyes to her mug and picking it up and finishing the last of it. She smiled at him. "Oh," she cooed, "unfortunately, you're out of luck; I'm fresh out!"

* * *

She imagined the conversation in her mind, _What else is there, then?_

_There's life._

_I _had_ a life!_

_You still have a life._

_Well, I want the one I had before._

_I'm sorry, no can do._

_Well, fuck you!_

_Yeah, you too, fuck you. You obviously like that, fucking yourself over with your stupid choices._

_Oh, I'm not the stupid one!_

_Yeah, yeah, _I_ am._

_Oh, exactly!_

She wasn't buying into _that_; no thanks.

She turned to glance at him. "Kate would pity you," she told him. "She'd try to… _empathise_ with you. Failing on that, she'd sympathise with you. I think you're an _idiot_. I understand, but I think you're an idiot, no less."

He nodded, flashing her a smile, "And you're entitled to your feelings, Kit."

She grinned. "Two words," she muttered; _Fuck you!_ She looked back to the window. _Do I even care? _she wondered. _Yes, I care; I care that he's going to go there to kill my friends, to kill _my sister's_ friends… to kill _himself_…_

_It's petty, oh, God!_

_Can I do something?_

_Why, yes, Kit you can, absolutely. You can get yourself killed._

_Great._

Her eyes stung. _Fuck you_, she hissed inwardly, _don't you even fucking try! Not even _one_ drop, do you hear me!_

* * *

_I suppose we've come all this way_, she thought, as the train pulled into the station, the last station they'd be seeing, and pulled to a perfect stop, right up in front of the platform. _Bravo!_

_You've got to be barking mad to think I'm going back; I'd look a right fool, wouldn't I? Have to do it all again, when I got bitter, again! Might as well do it now – not as though I'm not bitter now._

_Need to be stopped; I'm doing the universe a favour; universal favour, right._

_Oh, universe is going to love me._

_The universe is just the universe_, she wanted to yell. _It doesn't love or hate; shit happens, you idiot! Shit happens, and, later, more shit happens! What the fuck, the universe, life, moves on!_

The tears prickle again; her arms tell her, _Just grab him, just stop him, you can if you want to._

_No, no I can't_, her mind argues, _he'd push me away, he'd hit me, I'd let go, I'd fall._

_But you _can_, Kit!_

_No, I can't. I'd fail!_

_Do it, anyway!_

_Why?_

_Oh, Kit!_

_Why, you stupid fucker? Why?_

_Because it's all you can do; at least you'd have done _something_!_

_Doing nothing is doing something!_

_It's not the right 'doing something'! It's the 'something' that got us into this all of this shit in the first place, don't you see, Kit? Don't you see?_

_Fuck you!_

_Kit!_

_Fuck off!_

_Oh, Kit! Kitty, Kit!_

_I fail anyway! That's it, isn't it! I FAIL ANYWAY!_

_Kit._

_I CAN'T! I WON'T! I DON'T _WANT_ TO!_

_Kit, pull it together._

_Fuck you! Just, fuck you! WHY SHOULD I, YOU FUCKER?_

"Kit, this way please," Michael interrupted. "Less dawdling."

She was shaking, she realised. She was ready to cry, damn it! And did he notice? _No_, he _didn't_! How _could_ he?

She stretched out a shaking hand, _I'm scared. Please make it go away, I don't want _this_._

He took her hand and pulled her along with him: what was taking her, honestly!

He didn't even notice that she was shaking and cold.

She was _so cold_; his hand was so _warm_. But, inside, he was cold; even colder than she was. She bit back a sob. _Oh, Kate! Oh, Kate, why can't you have spoken to him! Why can't there have been words! There must be words for this, there must be words that could have helped, before it got to _this_! Oh, Kate, tell me some of your words._

_Oh, Kate; Katey!_

_Love you, Kate._

* * *

They stood outside of the building, outside, but so close, and all she could do was stand; she couldn't even run if she wanted to.

She held Michael's hand.

"Kit?"

She looked at him; he was looking down. _At our hands_, she thought.

She could feel his hand in hers; he wasn't holding her hand. She let go of his hand, it slipped from hers.

A tear slid down her face.

He wiped it away, and turned back to the building.

She turned, too.

* * *

**Life and cause** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Atlantis_ or any of its characters.


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